Bad Night Is Falling (23 page)

“I'll be back by ten, Ivan, hopefully with a writ.”

“Thanks, Parren. Call Jill, will you, and tell her good luck.”

“Yeah, yeah, enough with the slap and tickle. Let's visit the other part of our playground, shall we?” Fitzhugh put a hand on Monk and pulled.

Monk pulled back and the heat in the cold room went up twenty degrees.

Teague said calmly, “He's not handicapped.”

Zaneski's chest rose and fell rapidly until Fitzhugh leaned on the table where Teague and Monk sat side by side. “Let's go, gentlemen.”

Teague didn't make it back by ten. Monk did get to sample the breakfast sandwich, a salty piece of ham with fried egg on toasted white bread. The coffee wasn't bad and he did have the tiny cell all to himself. Newton Station, given its proximity to downtown, routinely rotated those awaiting trial down to the pit that was central booking. But his being kept there meant Zaneski and Fitzhugh weren't through with him yet.

Stretched out on his bunk, alternately drifting off and staring at the concrete ceiling, he was glad to see Teague around noon at his cell door.

“Sorry, Ivan, but the chief's jumped in too. He's macromanaging this affair and is insisting you tell everything you know and then maybe they'll see about only charging you with manslaughter.”

“There's not much else to add, Parren. I was shot at as I entered. I announced myself and was shot at again, then I returned fire. Obviously, Big Loco was somehow being held and deliberately put in the line of fire.”

Teague's bony hand gripped a bar. “Do you think he was being held inside the apartment? I've learned that Keith 2X went disappearing shortly after you saw him at the funeral.”

“I think he's on the run, Parren. Whoever told him about that meeting on Trinity must also be the one who hipped Big Loco.” Both Monk and Teague were well aware the cells were monitored by camera and sound. Their conversation served partly to bolster Monk's credibility with the detectives.

“Why?”

Monk remembered the van belonging to Maladrone's men cruising the funeral, and Maladrone's talk about instilling discipline and order. He'd intimated in their meeting that Big Loco was getting out of hand. After all, the iron lung gangster had taken shots at members of the Domingos. Presumably for committing the shoot-out.

“Damned if I know, Parren. Have they charged me formally with anything yet?”

Teague rubbed the bridge of his nose between thumb and index finger. “Zaneski has officially requested that your license be suspended.”

“Don't they have to give me a hearing?”

“They can suspend pending a hearing to revoke. I'm supposed to hear from them by tomorrow.”

“And it looks like they will.” Monk made a helpless gesture. “What else?”

“Your permit will more than likely be lifted by the time I bail you out of here. And speaking of bail, do you plan to put the judge's house up for collateral?”

Teague had only intended it as a factual question. But a continual irritant to Monk was the disparity in what Jill made and what he netted in a year. He didn't make half of her base salary, and she pulled in extra income from speaking engagements. “No. I'm hoping the donut shop will do.”

“Yes, I forgot about that,” Teague said sheepishly. “I'm afraid you'll have to endure another session or two with the Gold Dust Twins before they decide what to charge you with. Until then, the amount of bail can't be determined.”

“You're telling me I may not get out of here for another day or two. Or three.”

“Unfortunately.”

“What about the license number?”

“They're not telling, but I've got a bright intern from Loyola Law School hunting it down.”

“I appreciate your help, Parren.”

“Anything for one of my favorite sometimes investigators.”

Monk lightly knocked the other man's knuckles on the bars with his own. “Peace out, black man.”

A bemused look shadowed Teague's perpetually dour face. “I'll be back.”

Monk stretched out again, ruminating on the complexities of the case. What if there were some connection between Maladrone and Isaiah Booker? Cash makes no enemies. But is there that much money in hot cars? But maybe not just cars. Drugs? Why not? Pedestrian, but the struggle for cocaine or marijuana profits gets people canceled every day.

Hell, maybe Maladrone and Absalla are the hookup. An Aztec/Muslim combine. That had possibilities. He got up to see what time it was. “Damn,” he intoned, “missing my girl.”

“Don't you see, Stan, this is the problem we're faced with now at the end of the century. Liberals have taken a beating, and they should get the message. But like termites they've burrowed deep in public offices and still try to impose their values on the majority.”

Showing his very white teeth, Kenny Young, black neocon radio talk show host, swung a hand toward Kodama on the other side of the console. “What do you think about what Sally from Rosemead has to say, Judge Jill? You liberals are on the ropes and just don't have enough sense to lie down.”

Kodama had lost count of how many times this selfcentered asshole had called her “Judge Jill.” “I hate to be the one to tell you, Kenny—No, wait, I do want to be the one to tell you, Ken. Liberalism isn't dead, and there's plenty of evidence that supports that proposition. Fairminded people up and down this state have recently passed bonds for education and have condemned the police for beating striking immigrants. And don't forget, the people of this city in a recent poll said overwhelmingly they felt the county's welfare-to-workfare rules were too restrictive.”

“The will of the people was also expressed in passing three strikes,” Jamboni mentioned. “And certainly that was my intention in prosecuting the case the judge saw fit to impose her beliefs on.” He was sitting at the apex of the console, while Kodama and Young sat opposite. Each had on headphones.

“And a lot of those same people have also said they didn't vote for three strikes to put people in prison for twenty-five years for stealing a slice of pizza or a case of beer. They did it to rid the street of violent felons, not petty criminals as Mr. Wright's history attests to.”

“Don't do the crime if you can't do the time, Jill.” Young punched another light on the twinkling array of lights on the phone. “Jolie from Lomita.”

“Kenny, I guess as a black man you've never been stopped by the cops for driving in the wrong neighborhood. I guess they just knew by the suit you say you always wear and the nice car you didn't fit the profile.”

“This isn't about police abuse, Jolie.”

Kodama snarled inwardly. Every time he said a woman's name, he made it sound like Big Daddy talking to Maggie.

“You see, it is, Kenny. It's about do we continue to pump money and resources into the prisons and jails or do we make a decision to put the money into job training and schoolbooks.”

“What's your status, Jolie?” Young asked, not bothering to mask his hubris.

“My what?” the electronic voice crackled.

“You know, are you here legally or did you come across the hills in San Diego?”

“Your mama.” The line went off.

“I thought so,” Young said smugly.

“I think it's evident from the reaction to Judge Kodama's ruling that she's out-of-step with what the public wants, Kenny,” Jamboni theorized. “People want safe streets and the ability to walk into a convenience store and not have to worry that a quart of milk won't be the last thing they ever buy.”

“So you feel confident, D.A. Jamboni, that Judge Jill will be recalled in the special election that's been set?”

“Well,” he stammered effectively, “it's not for me to comment on that situation, Kenny. I wanted to come on your show to make it clear the D.A.'s office are not a bunch of vindictive, uncaring individuals. We are a concerned, humane group of dedicated prosecutors who represent the interests of law-abiding, hard-working citizens of the city and county.”

Young looked at Kodama. “What do judges represent, Jill?”

“Reason and balance, Kenny. Our system of justice, far from perfect, nonetheless has been constructed so that defendants not only have a right to a jury of their peers but an arbiter as well. The jury decides the facts, the judge applies the law. And the law was never meant to be a cudgel, but a method by which the rights of the individual are considered with regard to the desire of the people. Edmund Burke talked about the cold neutrality of an impartial judge.”

“Those are powerful words,” she continued. “For it implies that the judge must walk between the sometimes heated passions of a populace that calls for retribution and the fate of the individual brought before the docket.”

Agitated, Jamboni said, “The law is the law.”

“It is in the application of the law, it is in the intent of the law that the judge has some say. Three strikes seeks to straitjacket the ability of experienced jurists from being able to apply those factors that determine a convicted person's sentence. Is twenty-five years for a stupid robbery going to stop others with the same background as Mr. Wright from committing similar acts? I doubt it, as long as there's few alternatives we can offer such men and women.”

“Further,” Kodama added, taking a swift gulp of water, “according to a RAND study, three strikes may result in a $5.5 billion annual price tag for the taxpayers. More prisons would have to be built and maintained if this madness isn't curtailed. Drug interdiction programs, conflict resolution services, literacy programs for ex-felons—that's crime prevention.”

“UIp, there you go again,” Young jibed. “Sam, from Indian Wells.”

“Jeez, Kenny, it tries my nerves to sit here and listen to this supposed upholder of the law go on about how it's all society's fault for making the criminal.”

“That's not what I said.” She knew this voice.

“Why don't you just hang out your shingle and cut out the middleman. If you want to hold these thieves' hands, why not go all the way and become an ambulance chaser?”

“Well, Mr. Yorty,” Kodama said triumphantly. “When you first came to office as mayor of Los Angeles you had promised the black constituents of the Democratic Party you would do something to curb the police under Chief Parker. A man who openly recruited crackers from the Deep South.”

“Wha-what's that got to do with this subject?” the former mayor sputtered.

“It has to do with priorities, Mr. Yorty. Elected office is about how sometimes the needs of the minority, needs that may have not been met, have to at times outweigh the desires of the majority. The law is the law, but that doesn't always make it fair and just. What wasn't done then to set things right have a consequence now. The past has a way of determining the future.”

“More liberal gobbledygook,” he squawked. “You're gonna find, young lady, that you are seriously on the fringe of where the flag and country good people of this city are at.”

“So be it,” she answered. “But I remind you of what California Supreme Court Chief Justice Ronald George, appointed by a Republican governor, has said in regard to three strikes: ‘To the extent we deny judges discretion, we lose a lot. The judge is in the best position, having heard all the evidence, to impose an appropriate punishment.‘”

“Thanks for calling, Sam.” Young clicked him off and went to another flashing line.

Another forty-five minutes of being broiled on the charcoals of public opinion and Kodama pulled off her headset at twenty-eight after two. Keyed up, she felt like she could go another hour and a half at full throttle. If the voters wanted to turn her out of office, then go down swinging, girl. Fuck that reserved jurist shit. She got up, trying hard not to smile.

“Nice going, Mr. Jamboni.” Young shook the prosecutor's hand.

He garbled a “Thanks” while eyeballing the judge. “See you in the voting booth,” he said on his way out. He knocked his briefcase against his leg as he walked.

When Kodama went to get her purse, she was surprised to find Young lounging against the studio door.

“You were much better than I would have thought, Jill.” He'd slipped a couple of breath mints in his mouth. He smelled like a eucalyptus tree. “Women like you give liberalism a chance after all.”

He all but licked his lips. The Big Bad Right Wing Wolf. “Gee, thanks, Ken.” She came up to him. “Open the door.”

He bowed slightly and turned the knob. “You know, I hear you dig black men.”

Kodama did a movement with her hand. “Well, lookie here, Ken. I happen to find one black man of particular interest right now, and for some time to come.”

“But y'all ain't married.” He was laying his “black” affectations on.

“We're serious.”

“So am I.”

“You know, I'm willing to get my first strike if you don't get out of my way.”

“Ohh. You promise to tie me up and spank me?”

“What would those matrons in Van Nuys say if they heard you now.”

“They might want to join the fun.”

Kodama yanked the knob from his grasp and opened the door all the way. “Honey, if I found myself in bed with you, the queasiness I'd feel would be anything but hilarious.” She began to walk away.

“I like hard women,” he called after her.

“With your charm, maybe you ought to try hard men.” Kodama got to the parking lot and dialed Newton Station on her cellular. After some runaround, she got the watch commander and demanded to know Monk's status.

“Just heard you on Young's show, Judge. You gonna come down here hollering about how we be abusing the prisoners and such?” The heavy voice was like a glacial thaw.

“Let me speak to Zaneski or Fitzhugh.”

“Who?”

Her patience was thinning. “The detectives on the case.”